


Brody Drowns and Everyone is Psychic

by fairy_obvious



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M, Season 3 Finale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-19 19:25:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8222146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairy_obvious/pseuds/fairy_obvious
Summary: **NOW BETA'ED**S03-09 What if Brody actually drowned when the special team dropped him off the boat? Apart from the failure of Javadi operation, where would it take our heroes?Chapter 6.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’ll go chapter by chapter this time, but hopefully, it won’t take long.  
> Technical: I’m not a native speaker, so if you see a mistake or a ridiculous collocation in the text, you’re more than welcome to point fingers at it. I’m a language professional, I can take it. (No, seriously, I’d be grateful.)

\- …That's the play, Carrie. Tell me it's not worth your time.

Saul was just about to end his victorious speech, barely concealing his triumph over convincing Carrie to embark on the next phase of the operation and go on with their audacious Iranian plan. Suddenly, his burner phone rang. That could not be good news. He excused himself, avoiding her scrutinizing gaze, and went out to the adjacent hall. She heard him speak in an agitated, exasperated voice, only somewhat muffled by the glass panel between them. 

\- Yes. …What kind of an incident? …What?! How the hell did it…? Why wasn’t I informed immediately?.. Is Dar Adal aware of the situation?.. No, do not escalate this, do you hear me? I’ll be right there.

He was bombarding his interlocutor with questions and instructions which sent her into an immediate fit of panic. Then he hung up and almost ran past her toward the exit, pausing to drop a few evasive phrases, void of any meaning, and dashing off as though he was being chased. 

\- Carrie, we’ve had a ch-change of plans… There’s an issue I need to attend to… Please find out if you can be discharged today. I’ll send a car.

His voice trailed in her ears as she was desperately trying to put together everything she knew, fighting the painkiller fog which was still blurring her mind.

\--

Quinn was asleep after a surveillance shift – they had continued watching Franklin, making sure that he wasn’t doing anything to compromise Javadi’s position in Tehran. Without opening his eyes, he grabbed the phone from the floor by the bed and hit the green button.

\- Yes.

\- Quinn, it’s Saul. The operation’s at risk. Brody is dead. Get over to Dam Neck and bring Carrie.

\- How? When?

\- It was an accident. He drowned.

\- Drowned?! What the actual fuck? Does she know?

\- Not yet.

\- Do I tell her or will you?

\- It’s better to do it in person. In case she might… feel unwell. After all…

\- Yeah, I get it. Copy that, I mean. I’ll be at the hospital in thirty minutes.

Fucking Saul. Of course he’ll have to tell her now, the moment he sees her. What’s he supposed to do, keep a mysterious silence while she’s killing herself over with angst, or give her a false hope which could not be seen as anything other than betrayal afterwards? Besides, drowned? Do they seriously believe she’ll buy it? What the hell is actually happening? Who wanted him dead, now that Estes is not here anymore?

Soon after Carrie was brought to hospital, he learned from Saul about the next phase of the operation, but his intel was somewhat limited. He knew they’d gotten hold of Brody and planned to send him to Iran, or at least that’s what he’d been told. If the plan had been to take out Brody, who hadn’t been cleared of the Langley bombing allegations as yet, they could have played Quinn too, so as to make his death look like an accident, an operation gone wrong. The question was how many people at that point were aware of Quinn’s secret assignment regarding Brody and, consequently, his act of defiance. Why had they still decided to get rid of him? They couldn’t have drowned him for being the Langley bomber; it made no sense at all. Because they could have prosecuted him and locked him up for life – with a history like his, no lawyer would have stood a chance to negotiate a favorable plea. So it was the damned drone strike again, and a certain stakeholder of that operation was still in play. Who else, apart from Estes and Walden, would feel threatened by the disclosure? Lockhart? Most likely, he’d been nowhere near that group at the time. Dar Adal? If he remembered correctly, Adal hadn’t even been in the country then. Saul? He was the one to have dug up the redacted folder in the first place.

While his mind was doing all the computations, almost in the background mode, in his stomach he had a sickening, heavy and absolutely ungrounded feeling that he’d let her down. As if having to shoot her in the arm was not enough, he was now forced to tell her the man she loved was dead. The man he had disliked and distrusted, the man he’d been this close to killing. The man he had decided to let live, risking his entire career for a slight chance of her happiness. The man whose child she was carrying. The pregnancy he wasn’t supposed to know about, but he did, having peeked into her medical records – yet another reason for her to hate him if she found out. How many were there to come? He needed to find a way of telling her the horrid, mindfucking truth without hurting her more than he had to.

(To be continued.)


	2. Better than Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had never thought of her as a side he’d have to take, or a war he’d have to fight. But that was it now; these people had crossed a line, reached a point of no-return, and it wasn’t a play. So fuck them. All of them. And each of them in person. He’s had enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technical: Comments on language use are still acceptable and welcome here.

She was standing at the window, with her arm in a sling, wearing jeans and boots, but still in her hospital gown. She was pale, tense and far from happy to see him. Far from trying to conceal it as well.

\- You, of all people?

\- We’re a small team this time. Carrie… I’m sorry about the shoulder. It was a direct order. I couldn’t risk anyone else taking the shot. How are you feeling?

\- Brand-fucking-new. All right, whatever, just take me there, will you?

\- Sure. Erm, should I wait outside while you get dressed?

\- I can’t. I need a shirt or something. My family haven’t had time to bring me a change of clothes yet.

\- I might have a spare shirt in the car. If you’re okay with it, I can go look for it.

\- Don’t go look for it, I’ll change in the car – if it’s okay with you – so can we fucking move already?!

In the car, he found a spare shirt – one of the usual gray button-downs. At first, she tried to get changed on her own, with Quinn awkwardly looking in the other direction, but eventually, she acknowledged that she needed his help. Going easy on the injured arm, he carefully pulled off the gown – she wasn’t wearing a bra either. As he unfolded the shirt, he tried to keep looking away, which only made her angrier.

\- Oh for chrissake, Quinn, just help me put the fucking shirt on, I don’t care if you see my breasts or not!

The goosebumps. A few birthmarks, scattered across the creamy skin like some whimsical constellation. Her nipples, dark and small because of the cold air, unbearably vulnerable. The mesmerizing pattern of thin, pale blue veins. The bandage with stains of dried blood. The thought of the pain he had caused her clenched his throat with a new, burning intensity. He couldn’t look away now even if he had to and prayed she wouldn’t notice his ardent, troubled stare. Even if she did, she didn’t comment. He reached out to button the shirt, but she brushed his hands off. 

\- I’ll manage. Drive, will you?

They took off. She started fidgeting with the buttons, fastening them with a single shaking hand, grunting, swearing, unable to contain her anxiety, anticipation, fear and a desperate hope that everything could still be okay. There was no delicate way. There couldn’t have been. “Carrie.” He was moving his lips, but strangely, there was no sound. He cleared his throat.

\- Carrie. He died.

She stopped fidgeting. There were three buttons left. Very slowly, she fastened one of them... Two. He forgot to draw a breath. Three... She still didn’t say anything.

She was silent for a good half hour. She remained so still that he sometimes cast a side look at her, just to make sure she was still conscious. Suddenly she turned to him and dropped a bombshell of a question, a hand-grenade full of hatred, apprehension and distrust:

\- Who gave you the order to kill him?

It was so out of the blue that Quinn hit the brakes abruptly and turned to her as well. Luckily, there were few cars on the road. How did she know? Which of the episodes was she even referring to? Of course, he was going to protest, especially given that he had nothing to do with Brody’s death. But there was a slight moment of panic and hesitation in his eyes, and Carrie grasped it immediately. And he saw it. There was no turning back.

\- Estes.

\- Bullshit. Estes is dead.

\- It was before the bombing. I didn’t do it then.

\- Oh, so you’ve finished the job… Always so reliable.

Now she was the one to lose her voice, talking in choked whispers.

\- Carrie, I didn’t kill him. 

\- You’re lying. God, I’m so tired of people covering their asses I can’t even tell you.

\- Chances are no one did. It could have been an actual accident, although I admit I have my own doubts. Let’s get there first, before we jump to any conclusions.

\- You’re lying. 

\- I’m not. I couldn’t have done it.

\- And why is that I wonder?!

\- Because… for the same reason as before the bombing. I… know what he means… meant to you.

\- And?

\- I saw the two of you at the cabin…

\- So you watched us. Fucking great! I don’t care, though. What else?

\- I know you’re carrying his child. I… I took a look at your medical records, while you were in surgery.

If her reaction could have been worse, he was short of imagination to picture it.

\- You what?! 

She unbuckled her seat belt and tried to unlock the door, clicking the lock hectically – the doors were blocked – banging against the door with her fist, shouting “Open the car! Open it, goddamit, let me out!” There was no use trying to exonerate himself at this point.

\- Carrie, please. You’re under a lot of stress. You can’t walk to Dam Neck from here anyway, especially not with your injury. 

She froze by the door, trying to keep the longest possible distance between them. “You can hate me while we drive there,” he added under his breath, starting off again.

At the facility, the hasty investigation was in full swing. Dar Adal and Saul were taking turns at the unfortunate team who had been put in charge of Brody's rehabilitation. The great hulks of men were nothing short of intimidated, almost wincing at every waspy tirade or their superiors. He couldn’t help but feel that the lashing was something of a showoff, Saul’s lame attempt of covering up his own failure. Carrie didn’t give in either. Completely disregarding the whipping boys, she hissed right in Saul’s face:

\- You’re being very naïve if you think I’m going to leave it like that! “Repercussions” doesn’t quite cover what’s going to happen…

\- Carrie. It was an accident. Repercussions or not, no one was trying to kill him. His rehabilitation was a daring experiment with a very slight chance of success. And we missed it. I’m sorry.

\- Yeah, well, then I missed the point at which I was supposed to start buying all that crap. Saul, if you think I won’t have the guts to turn our recent play into something pretty fucking real, for the agency and for you in person, then you’re wrong, you’re so fucking wrong you’re being delusional, and don’t you even…

“Peter, take care of it,” snapped Dar Adal (“It?..It?!” gasped Carrie in exacerbation). Quinn raised his eyebrows but moved toward her in a vain attempt to get her back to her senses. She flinched in disgust and stormed out of the room. He followed.

She didn’t go far. Having collapsed on a haphazard chair in the hallway, covering her face with her hands, she didn’t seem violent anymore, just wrecked and hopeless. When he approached, she showed her face, looking at him with a blurred gaze, as if she didn’t even know him, as if there was a thick wall of opaque glass between them. “Where is he?” she whispered, so quietly that he barely made it out.

\- They’re still looking for the body. Hey, are you sure you don’t need…

\- Just stay the fuck away from me!

She got up with a visible effort and staggered toward the reservoir, like some wounded, trapped, but stubborn animal. An agonizing sight. Half an hour later, he found her still standing on the shore, staring intently at the search operation carried out by a team of divers from a motor boat some fifty meters away. From the back, he could see she was shivering, shaking with cold in his thin cotton shirt. 

\- Let’s pretend I’m still staying the fuck away from you, but here, take this plaid and your painkillers, at least… 

Even if there were no words of gratitude, she didn’t push him away, obediently wrapping herself in the plaid and swallowing the pills. She even sat down on a chair he dragged from the nearby bushes – apparently, local marines had a thing for chairs, sticking them up in the most improbable places. 

And then they heard screams from the boat, and the divers started pulling something out of the water, something limp, colorless, shapeless ¬– a shell of a man – and she jumped to her feet and gasped for air, only it was too quick, and she was too weak and exhausted from the loss of blood and the strain, so she blacked out, hitting the ground with a sickening thump before he could reach out to catch her. 

He had never thought of her as a side he’d have to take, or a war he’d have to fight. But that was it now; these people had crossed a line, reached a point of no-return, and it wasn’t a play. So fuck them. All of them. And each of them in person. He’s had enough.

She recovered her senses, but could barely sit straight and looked torpid. Almost dragging her back to the parking lot, Quinn put her in the backseat of his car and shut the door, only to face Dar Adal, who glared at him in fury and disbelief:

\- What do you think you’re doing?

\- What does it look like I’m doing? I’m taking her back to hospital.

\- Peter, we have an operation going down the drain here. A potential highlight of your entire career and definitely… 

\- I’m. Taking her. Back. To hospital. Fucking sue me if you like.

Dar Adal sighed in helpless exasperation. There weren’t many things he had agreed upon with the deceased Estes, but he had definitely been right about this woman. A nightmare of an officer. A fucking banshee who was now clenching her claws over his most valued soldier.


	3. Bone China

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bone china was his favorite so far. A perfect splash of tiny white splinters. A gentle rustle of them hitting the floor, barely discernible after the shot. An instant, if momentary, relief.

They filed their resignation petitions on the same day, running into each other right across the petition officer’s workplace. In spite of their recent differences, this coincidence established a strange sort of sad, disillusioned camaraderie between them. It was astonishing how much paperwork the process entailed. They came to Langley almost every day, retrieved their dossiers from the local archive – Quinn carried both boxes as Carrie was still recovering from the wound – picked a spare gray cubicle in the maze of hallways and sat there for hours, leafing through endless folders and singing hundreds of papers. Their last operation together. Carrie was civil, almost friendly. The necessity to go over the entire scope of her work brought a lot of memories to the surface and she even shared some of them with Quinn – not the classified stuff, just places, towns, peculiar and remarkable colleagues she’s worked with, no names, of course, funny incidents, retold with a bitter half-smile, small triumphs and hiccups… In return, he shared some of his memories too, desperately inventing eye-catching details and juggling the scarce facts he could tell her, just to keep the conversation going, just to retain her gaze, tired, sad and thoughtful, always ready to wander off to those places he didn’t belong to. Every day it became a harder task. She seemed fine, physically; over the two weeks, he’d never seen her cry in his presence, lose her temper or react to anything in any extraordinary way. But every day she became more and more withdrawn, eventually shutting down completely. He knew better than to nudge her about it. 

And then there were the psych evals. Dr. Byatt, a bulldozer of a woman whom he could never bring himself to call Helen, dragged him through all the darkest corners of his memories, his nightmares, his breakdowns, his Venezuela, his Afghanistan, his Caracas incident, his false confession to double homicide. She was a solid professional and oh, man, she had a way of getting under your skin. The worst part was that she looked nothing short of enjoying it. No wonder he’d never completed his resignation on prior occasions. He hated everything about her – her toadlike gaze, her formal niceties, the heavy, sickly sweet scent of her perfume. Especially that. When he got home, he’d take off all of his clothes and thrust them in the washing machine to get rid of this venomous, sticky stench. This time, Carrie came up a lot. Every time, he could swear he saw Dar Adal’s sarcastic grin through the one-way mirror. Every time, the shrink got more and more pressing and unceremonious. But this time, it was not only about him. He persevered.

\- You said she is one of the reasons you want out of Dar Adal's group. Are the two of you romantically involved?

“Go fuck yourself already!” Deep breath, nice smile.

\- No. We’re not.

\- You mentioned there were certain circumstances affecting your choice in the recent operation.

“Yeah, like her being three months pregnant.” It was not his secret to spill. Deep breath, nice smile.

\- No. There weren’t. I made the call which seemed right at the moment.

\- That is, you chose her.

“Is that a fucking question?” Unfold arms. Uncross legs. Convey frankness.

\- I wouldn’t put it that way, Dr. Byatt.

\- How would you put it then?

\- I view it as an ethical choice, not a personal one. “Eat that.”

\- All right, Peter. We’ll start off with this tomorrow.

On days when he didn’t have any appointments at Langley, he’d drive to an abandoned power plant in the suburbs, which he used as his personal shooting range. He’d unload a wooden crate full of old cups, tin cans and bottles and then he’d start experimenting with distance, angle, ammunition… Given his resignation from the group, it was an ironic choice of a pastime, but strangely, it helped him to retain what was left of his self-control after the shrink sessions. Besides, he was realistic – with a background and a skillset like his, the choice of future civilian professions was limited and probably involved knowledge of firearms anyway, so why not brush up and hone what he already had. And he also liked the sounds. Bone china was his favorite so far. A perfect splash of tiny white splinters. A gentle rustle of them hitting the floor, barely discernible after the shot. An instant, if momentary, relief.

He also had dreams. Nightmares, mostly, but not only nightmares. He dreamed of her, too. Usually, it was just her presence. Her voice and her laughter behind the corner of some concrete tunnel. A strand of golden hair in his fingers. But once he had this dream where she was his. Her eyes, shining with happiness and desire, were an inch away from his face. They made love, and it was tender and unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world and even a little more. And then he shot her in the head. With the sound of a smashing china cup.

Soaked in cold sweat, he woke up to a gray Sunday morning. It struck him that he hadn’t seen her since they handed over their papers, and he was genuinely surprised to realize almost three weeks had passed. All that time he’d been so preoccupied with holding the illusory fort of their twisted connection and going down his well of horrors that he never as much as texted her. It’s not that he hoped for a warm reply. But now he felt a strong urge to make sure the real Carrie was all right. So he typed a text. “Hi, Carrie. How are you?” Simple as that. No answer. “When will you be @Langley? Found something of yours in the car.” Of course, he hadn’t. But he’d come up with something later. Whatever works… An hour. Still no answer. Time to get inventive. “Also, there’s a hiccup with your dossier, a couple signatures are missing. I could drive by with the papers.” Nothing. He called, she didn’t answer. Five times over two hours. He tried the landline, it was dead. Half-sure he would come to a locked door and a for-rent sign, he drove to her place, taking the longest way possible.

She was at home. She answered the door in her yoga pants and a stretched, stained sweatshirt, her hair tied up in a sloppy knot at the top of her head. Her pregnancy started to show, completing her image of a suburban soccer mom whose maternity leave had caught her in between jobs. She even had rosy cheeks and her eyes were kind of shining, but not like in his dream – her look was evasive and uneasy, setting off every possible alarm in his head. He began warily: 

\- Hi. Mind if I come in?

\- Sure. Come in. So what do you want?

\- Um, nothing special, just... passing by.

\- Quinn, you live miles away from here, what do you want?

\- Carrie, you’ve just... disappeared. No one’s seen you at Langley for, like, three weeks or so, you’ve dropped out of your resignation program – you know you can’t do that, not unless you really want to break free from them. So I was just kind of worried. Is everything all right? Do you need any help maybe?

He was bluffing, of course. He had no idea whatsoever about the progress of her resignation, but what could he say? “Carrie, I dreamed of you, we fucked and then I blew your brains out, so are you okay?” But he seemed to have guessed right. She had dropped out. And now she was faking a friendly smile, apparently anxious for him to leave:

\- No, I’m all good, actually. I feel pretty great. Langley, yeah, I was going to give them a call. Anything else?

\- What’s the noise? Are you renovating something?

\- No, I just needed to have a couple wardrobes installed, and it turned out to be harder than I thought. I mean, look at me now… So I asked a guy next door to help me with it.

“A guy next door? What fucking guy? Where’s his fucking door?”

\- A guy next door? Do you even know him? Are you sure it’s safe enough to let a complete stranger into your house? You could have called someone you know, like me or – Max, yeah, you could have called Max… 

\- Jesus, Quinn, give me a break. Of course, I know him. We even slept once. No, twice. Why are you looking at me like that? It was, like, ages ago. Anyway, we’re kinda pals now. And…

After having to watch her with Brody, he had no idea a reference to her other partners could hurt so much. But it did. He averted his eyes, completely unable to stop looking at her “like that.” Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of intense cobalt on the kitchen counter. A very specific shade of blue for a frequenter of liquor stores.

\- What’s that blue… Carrie, are you out of your goddamn mind? Have you been drinking?

Now he saw it. She was really, actually tipsy, and she started giggling, and it was appalling and pathetic at once, making him want to stick his fingers in his ears or to run away, preferably, to wake up to another Sunday morning in a parallel universe. She went on with her gibberish:

\- What? No… Oh, just a few drops, you know. To brighten up the day. You want some? Come on, Quinn, don’t be a spoilsport, stop lecturing me, let’s just…

Refusing to listen, he pushed her aside, well, not pushed, but moved, taking her by the shoulders and shifting her aside like some fragile, inanimate object, strode to the table, grabbed the blue tequila bottle and the two glasses, emptied them in the sink and threw them into the bin, instantly horrified by the clink against other glass objects, a lot of them, presumably.

In the living room there was this guy, a lanky red-haired fellow with a stupid grin (red-haired, can you believe it?), whom he kindly advised to leave the house immediately, no, seriously, he was really nice about it, but the guy was a little dim and had apparently had a few drinks too, so, well, a black eye and a couple of broken fingers never hurt nobody, did they? Did they, I’m asking you? That’s it then, get lost, off you go.

And then he just stood in the middle of her empty living room among carpenter’s tools and the debris of future wardrobes, trying to wrap his head around what had just happened. And what it could mean for him. Beating up a civilian. He controlled himself for twelve fucking years and now he lost it because of what, Carrie’s stupid, irresponsible escapades and this dumbass? His brain immediately produced a moving hologram of Byatt the shrink with her ever-gloating “Once is all it takes.” 

Carrie appeared in the doorway, looking at him with a mixture of contempt and apprehension. For a second, he thought he caught a shade of warmth in her eyes, but no – it was pity at best. Her voice came surprisingly equanimous, making the words even harsher.

\- Get the fuck out of my house. Get the fuck out of my life, once and for all. You want a piece of advice too? For one thing, get your own shit together.

And so he did. 

And nothing changed – except he didn’t shoot at china cups anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, you can still make fun of my English, remember?


	4. A Payback Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was astonished to realize how much he had hoped that something would happen between them and how little hope he had left now – like an entire Atlantic Ocean of difference. And he felt like he was being pushed right into the middle of it, lead-gray waves closing above his head.

To his own surprise, he didn’t go off the rails. He completed his psychological evaluation program. He didn’t turn to drinking. He even took a career guidance course for ex-agents, attending every single fucking session and turning his notebook into the largest collection of scribbles and random patterns since his school days. Not that it helped – he was still pretty much nowhere in terms of future employment, sifting through never-ending vacancies of bodyguards for silicone-assed celebrities and high-profile corporate dickheads. Some job descriptions were boring, some downright humiliating, while  reading between the lines of some others gave him the feeling that he might well end up being a hitman for the mob.

Occasionally, he hung out with Rob and other guys from the group, although he could sense he was already somewhat of an outsider. He didn’t mind. He didn’t mind anything these days, too busy fighting that dull stubborn pain somewhere at the back of his head, a splinter, placed there by Carrie’s indifferent tone and bruising words. Even though he’d made astonishing progress in getting his shit together, he had no intention of going back to her. For this he was too… proud? Realistic? Somehow, nothing made much sense anymore, but spiraling down into depression was no exception. Killing himself with time and work was as good as any other method, just slower, but it’s not like he was in any real hurry.

At night, he still had those dreams. He kind of liked them, even the nightmares. Those without the finishing shot.

Next time he saw her was at Langley, almost four months later. She looked composed and focused, but her usual austere pantsuit and all-business attitude made an eerie contrast with her huge bump and a new, languid gait. She was the one to approach him in the empty cafeteria.

\- Hey.

\- Hey, Carrie. Good to see you’re back on your feet.

_ “Last night in my dream, you had longer hair.” _ There was a new softness to her smile he couldn’t remember from before.

\- Yeah... I’m not here for long. One last polygraph, and I’m out. I wanted to thank you, actually.

“Right. Thank me.” When she said something like that to Brody, she wanted to rip his skin off. Presumably.

\- Don’t. So do you know what you’re gonna do, apart from…?

She tucked her hair behind her right ear – a gesture he’d seen a thousand times and could replay in his mind any minute. It hit him that he didn’t have a single photo of her – not that he needed one, but still...

\- Well… I was thinking about Europe. It kind of makes sense because of my background in the Middle East... which I could leverage with all the turmoil going on. I’ve even applied to a couple of places and there’s this foundation, Derring or something, headquartered in Berlin… They seemed interested in my credentials. So we’ll see… How are things with you? You’re not staying, are you?

“No, Carrie. You’re the one who’s really not staying.” The huge, gaping distance between their tiny metal table and Germany added a new touch of finality to their conversation. He was astonished to realize how much he had hoped that something would happen between them and how little hope he had left now – like an entire Atlantic Ocean of difference. And he felt like he was being pushed right into the middle of it, lead-gray waves closing above his head. Now that he was underwater, speaking became difficult, but he did his best:

\- No. I’m not. I mean, not in the long term, but…

\- But?

\- There’s this last assignment. Al-Raqqah.

\- Jesus. Syria... But they can’t make you go, can they? With you being out and all that.

\- No. They can’t. I volunteered.

The truth is he hadn’t. He’d come up with the decision a moment ago, out of an irrational fear he might stop dreaming of her when she leaves for Berlin. And he still didn’t have her photo.

\- Volunteered?! I don’t understand you, Quinn, I’m really at a loss here…

\- That’s all right, Carrie. You really don’t have to.

\- So… Is it a goodbye then?..

_ “Yes, Carrie. Goodbye, Carrie. Have a good life.” _ So easy, huh? But he failed miserably:

\- I still have a couple of weeks. See you around… I guess. Take care.

So much for letting go. She nodded, with a slightly bemused look, pushed back her chair and walked away. He watched her cross the cafeteria and disappear behind the opaque glass door before he dialed Rob.

The night before deployment brought drizzling rain and a gusty wind. He dreamt of Berlin. 

The city was exactly as he remembered it: glass and concrete, graffiti on brick walls, coffee shops and the maze of the U-Bahn… He wandered around half-empty streets, looking for Carrie because he knew she had something important to tell him, but she was nowhere to be found; it was getting darker, and most passers-by were dark-skinned, speaking in some unknown Middle-Eastern language, but finally he caught a flash of blond at the end of the street and rushed toward it, pushing strangers aside, and he grasped her by the hand and she turned, but... It was Astrid, looking at him with her usual understanding smile. Before he figured out what to tell her, he was woken up by an energetic knock on the door. 

The alarm clock showed two a.m. He pulled on his pants. Another series of knocks, a louder one. He checked his gun and released the safety. The intruder was already pounding his fist against the door. He tiptoed to the door. Carrie. Wet, concerned and still very pregnant. He put the gun down.

\- Argh…Thank God you’re home!

\- Carrie? What are you doing here?

She gave him a wry, awkward smile, while folding her umbrella.

\- I guess that’s what you call “passing by.” So will you let me in?

\- Sure, come on in… What happened?

\- Nothing. Nothing happened.

She seemed to be holding something back, fidgeting with her raincoat and scarf. He was trying to stop his pulse from racing, fighting a mixture of excitement and anxiety. She finally got rid of her coat, looked for a hanger, didn’t find one, dropped it on the floor – he didn’t notice, trying to figure out if he was still dreaming.            

\- So why are you here, Carrie? Do you need help? Look… I’m not making excuses, but I’m leaving in a couple of hours…  On that assignment I told you about.

\- Yeah, that’s why I’m here. Don’t go.

\- What? Why is that?

\- No reason. Just don’t. Call it intuition, call it nerves – I don’t care – but something feels wrong. Very wrong. Something’s missing. I know it sounds like bullshit, but don’t go. Find a way. You said they can’t make you.

\- They can’t, but I already…

\- Make a call now and say you’re not going!

\- Why, because of your bad feeling?! Are you officially a psychic now? Changed your line of work? Read any fucking horoscopes recently?

But he started feeling it, too. The mysterious “something” which was missing. Carrie’s anxiety was contagious, tangible, pulsing in the air.

\- Yeah, go ahead, make fun of me, just would you please make the fucking call? Please? Please?!

She was nothing short of desperate.  _ “Sure, Carrie. Whatever you need.”  _ He reached for the phone.

Rob was livid. That is, he was very understanding and didn’t so much as raise his voice. Every time they got off their “asshole-douchebag” routine, Quinn felt he was doing something wrong. But this time, it was unprecedented. Anyway, he pushed off his remorse, yielding to the surreal ambiance of this night: Carrie had climbed onto his sofa, stretching out with a catlike, animalistic grace, visibly relieved after a long drive. He couldn’t take his eyes off her soft curves, vaguely wondered if there was something wrong about that and decided he didn’t care. But what was she doing here really?

\- You’re nervous because of the baby, is that why you’ve asked me to stay? Because, you know, if there’s something I can…

After their frantic, disturbing conversation, her voice came low and soothing, washing all over him like warm waves – he had trouble distinguishing words.

\- No. No, I’m fine. I’m going to the hospital in a few weeks, I’ve a C-section scheduled – Maggie said it’s preferable in terms of stress, and I could end up with an emergency one because of my condition... (She realized he wasn’t really following.) Anyway, I’m okay. All set. Ready to go…

She rearranged her legs on the sofa, rubbed her fists against her lower back and stretched again – it must be a hell of an exercise moving around with such a bump. Catching his worried look, she let out a bitter laugh.

\- Shit, Quinn, who am I fooling? Of course, I’m nervous, I’m nervous as fuck, I can’t sleep at night. But there’s nothing you can… I’ve got plenty of help. And it has nothing to do with you or your assignment. So just think of it as a payback visit. Anyway, I should go.

And off she went, declining Quinn's offer to drive her home – one very pregnant and independent guardian angel. In the morning, he found her soaked umbrella on the floor by the door – so it hadn’t been a dream, after all. But he didn’t call her, unsure what to make of it. What could he say? Offer help again? Not that she needed any. Not from him, at least.

A week later, he stumbled across Dale, the youngest guy in their group, who had been out of the operation this time. The only guy left, apart from Quinn. 

The operation had been a failure. The vehicle with the entire team had been cross-hit by two RPGs, no survivors. No one knew exactly what had happened or who was behind it. One of the clusterfucks that never make it to the front page – because the group wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place.

He helped Dale deliver some of the goodbye letters, just to alleviate the crushing feeling of guilt and bereavement. One of the beneficiaries asked, “why weren’t you there?” He didn’t know what to tell her; maybe it was in his head, but he still couldn’t find an answer. In the evening, he went to the nearest bar and got drunk, really drunk, finishing glass after glass to the accompaniment of excited roaring. It was a sports bar, but he was paying more attention to the outlet above his table than to the match. When the bar closed for the night, he was so shitfaced he barely made it home.

Collapsing on the sofa, he felt he had to tell her. He started typing a message on his phone, very focused on hitting the right letters. 

“Carrie, thank you for saving my life.” Delete. 

“Carrie. You’ve given me my life back.” Delete. 

“Carrie, you’re the reason I’m still alive.” Delete. 

“Carrie. You’re the reason I still want to live.” 

Fuck! What was so hard about this handful of words? All right, you don’t thank someone for saving your life with a drunken text. So he decided to go with something more neutral, just arranging a meeting, not needy, not desperate and especially not shitfaced drunk:

“Carrie. Something has happened. I need to see you.”

He tried re-reading it, but all he could see was a series of blurred spots, so he hit the greener spot, just in time before everything faded to black. He woke up around noon, to a raging headache and an unread message on the phone. What he’d sent her last night looked as follows:

“C8rrie. !1 ^&)&860**) I need y0u.”

Holy fuck. But there was an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kindly and thoroughly beta'ed by Leblanc1 and Ascloseasthis!!


	5. Chapter 5. Roses Are Fucked (And So Are You)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So now, instead of just feeling sorry for her distant, unfathomable pain, he was right next to her, in the same bubble of guilt, denial, anger and helplessness. Has she moved on? Will he ever?

“Quinn? What? Can it wait? I’m at the hospital, kinda busy.”

Speak about timing. Which hospital? Calling her was not an option – it would only confuse things more. How many hospitals were there in her district? She could have been at some private maternity center or whatever you call it, Quinn was no expert. Well, locating a civilian in a familiar city looked like an absurdly easy task anyway. It turned out to be even easier  – she was at the large military hospital most CIA agents were treated in, so he headed there straight away.

At the entrance of the hospital, it dawned on him that he hadn’t bothered to get her a present. Flowers were his immediate choice because he didn’t have a slightest clue as to what baby stuff she might need. Conveniently, there was a tiny flower shop right across the street. Inside, he expected to see a homely elderly lady in a checkered apron, or a twenty-something girl with too much makeup and fake nails – the types you normally see across the counter in flower shops. To his surprise, the place was run by a strikingly thin young guy with long pitch-black hair and tunnels in his ears. His all-black outfit stood out against the medley of flowers, making him resemble an ominous black bird. Quinn paused in front of the vases. The flower guy intervened in a perfectly relaxed and neutral tone, only somewhat too unceremonious for a shop assistant.

\- The message, man. Give me the message you wanna send, and I’ll give you the flowers.

\- It’s for a… colleague of mine. She’s had a baby.

\- Colleague, my ass. You’ve been staring at those burgundy roses for, like, an eternity.

_ “What the fuck?!” _ Quinn never had to search for words whenever someone was asking for trouble, but what he’d just heard was so outrageous that he was half sure it had been in his head. However, the guy continued, with a perfectly serene and maybe just a bit ironic expression on his pale face:

\- And by your thoroughly offended look, I grasp that the baby isn’t yours. So you kinda don’t want to impose. It’s okay, man. I work across from the hospital. I’ve seen things. People saying sorry when they aren’t.  People saying “I love you” when they don’t. Get-well bouquets with a touch of poison. Bucket-sized bunches of flowers before filing a divorce. So just phrase it, man. For your own sake, if not for mine.

Quinn couldn’t positively say what kept him from smashing the jerk’s head against the wall – figuratively, at least. But he just didn’t feel like it. In fact, the bluntness gave him a weird sort of comfort: the guy wasn’t sneering or judging; he was just stating the fact, putting their fucked-up situation in simple, unambiguous words. And in his casualness, he was so damn sharp that it almost gave you the creeps. Quinn’s eyes wandered back to the flowers. The guy went on raving in a laid-back tone of a habitual weed smoker:

\- I wonder what’s taking you so long… Oh, the father… The actual father is out of the picture. Mhm. Why are you looking at me like that? Wait… was it you who killed him? Hey, man, take it easy, I’m just kidding... I wouldn’t turn you in anyway – not my business. Take those, yellow ones with red tips. Give the lady some goddamn time, I mean, she’s just had a baby, for chrissake.

Without dignifying it with a comment, Quinn paid for the bouquet and rushed outside. The fucker was a lunatic.

Carrie had checked in almost three days earlier. It gave him a painful twinge that she hadn’t texted him, but then again, why should she have? The voluptuous black nurse at the reception stabbed him with a piercing look:

\- Are you the father?

\- No. A friend.

\- Please wait here, I’ll ask Ms. Mathison if she's receiving non-family visitors. And your name is?

He gave his name, half wondering if he should have lied and given someone else’s. But he was soon invited in. Carrie was sitting on her bed, pale and worn out; however, she greeted him with a cheerful smile. A cheerful, friendly, civil and perfectly alienating smile. Well fucking deserved.

\- Quinn. Thanks for coming. 

\- Hey, sorry about the text – I had no idea…

\- That’s okay. I’m already climbing the walls of this lovely institution, so you brightened up my day – only it was in the middle of the night.

\- Carrie, I… 

\- What, did you pocket-text me? Anyway…

She looked like she had started to enjoy their little game. Only he didn’t feel like playing.

\- No. I was dead drunk. Sorry. But I did need to see you.

\- Oh.

Was she hurt? She turned away to check on the tiny creature in the crib by the other side of her bed, so he wasn’t sure he’d read her right. But the baby hadn’t made a sound, so it might as well have been a pretext. Finally, putting the roses on a small table next to a couple more bouquets – from her family, most likely – he asked himself if she felt lonely. She probably did. If she was thinking about Brody a lot. She must have been. His own loss changed the sympathy he had for hers. Rob and some of the guys, the oldest ones, were the closest to a family he’s had since he could remember. Steve. Bruce. Charlie. Mark. In places they had been, he couldn’t wish for a better family. So now, instead of just feeling sorry for her distant, unfathomable pain, he was right next to her, in the same bubble of guilt, denial, anger and helplessness. Has she moved on? Will he ever? He dragged on the strenuous conversation, anxious to get to the point and be done with it:

\- Anyway, how are you? The two of you?

\- Baby girl decided to have her birthday a bit earlier than planned. The doctors say we’re fine. So why did you want to see me?

She stood up with a slightly concerned expression on her face, suddenly looking at him very intently. If there had been any guidelines for a conversation after an accidental, half-assed love confession, he clearly wasn’t following any.

\- I had a birthday of sorts yesterday, too.

And he told her about Dale and the group, immediately feeling horrible about dropping the news here, around happy moms and innocent babies, as if subjecting everyone around to an invisible radiation of death and violence. Carrie was looking at him with huge, unbelieving eyes.

\- Oh my god. Oh my god.

She started crying, and hugging him, and crying again, sniffling, wiping her eyes, apologizing, swearing and still crying – a whirlwind of emotion, Quinn’s personal tornado. If he had had any doubts about whether she could have known anything about the ambush, they were long gone now. He hugged her back, lightly, just putting his arms around her shoulders, and her embrace became tighter, and she was still crying – for both of them now because Quinn was still unable to squeeze out a tear and just stood there, holding her, breathing her in, unable to let go. It was then that he realized: he was going to wait for her. As long as it took. And he was going to follow her wherever she went. Because that’s what she was – the reason. The reason for him to live now. The only one left. All he had to do now was to wait, and he knew how to do it.

A minute later – or was it just a second? Or maybe an hour later? Time had stopped having any meaning. So, a minute later, she broke their embrace. They both sat down and stayed silent for a while, not touching each other, not looking at each other, immersed in their own thoughts. And then the baby woke up, some doctors and nurses entered and he took off, squeezing her hand for the last time and catching a warm, sad glance of her wet eyes.

When Carrie was alone again – well, not alone, just her and her daughter, a new, strange feeling of never being truly alone – she looked at Quinn’s roses against the pale-blue wall: intense buttercup-yellow, with eye-gouging scarlet tips and the dull green foliage, almost black in the evening light. She had a sudden image in her head of this bouquet being used to wipe someone’s blood off the floor, soaking fragile yellow flowers in thick crimson liquid. And there they were now, dripped in blood but still intact. The sight became unbearable, so she pulled the table toward her bed and started meticulously pinching off the red tips with her nails, petal by petal, then took a pair of baby nail clippers – it was quicker – and soon the entire bouquet, about a dozen flowers, was bereaved of its blood-drenched crown. The ragged yellow petals looked pitiful – crippled survivors who got away too late. But they were safe now; she saved them, just like she had saved him.

The nurse who came to check on her in the evening cast a very concerned look at the flower massacre.

\- Ms. Mathison, would you like these to be taken away?

\- No, please leave them.

\- Are you sure?

\- I said, leave them!

She went out of the room, making a note to self to discuss it with Ms. Mathison’s psychiatrist. A patient with a history like hers had an increased risk of postpartum depression – god forbid she were a danger to the baby or herself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thanks to ACAT and Leblanc1 for beta reading!! You've no idea what they are saving you from)
> 
> One more thing!  
> Readers, just a note that on October 29-30 Live Journal will be launching Fic Me - HLS Bookclub featuring a discussion with Finlyfoe regarding her Julia Files fic. Details are here: http://homelandstuff.livejournal.com/11403.html. Join us! If you're not a member you have the option to participate anonymously.


	6. The Safest Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then he started having it too – the bad feeling. It was nothing like they show in cheap thrillers: some dumbass staring into thin air, brow furrowed, mouth agape. Instead, he felt as if he was tripping down an imaginary staircase, like when you’re falling asleep and wake with a start instead of going deeper. Only it happened in broad daylight.

When he got back to his apartment, they were already waiting for him inside. Scott and a couple of his guys, all in camo, heavily armed and not even trying to conceal it. No surprises there – jumping ship from an operation which goes awry right afterward doesn’t score you extra points, to say the least. 

But it didn’t make him feel less angry about the intruders. As useless as fighting was, he was not going to make their job easier.

\- You ever heard of the phone? Could have spared you the ride. And what’s with the war paint?

\- Peter, you need to come with us. Lockhart has a few questions for you.

\- Tell him to fuck off. I don’t answer to Lockhart.

\- Dar Adal as well.

\- Too bad. I don’t answer to him either. I’m out, ever cared to check?

\- Then we’re bringing you in as a private citizen. Come on now, don’t make things worse than they already are.

At Langley, as they lead him down the stairs to interrogation rooms, he couldn’t withhold a sarcastic grin.  _ “A few questions.” _ That was quintessential Lockhart. Man, did he have trouble calling a spade a spade. Fuck, they even chained him to the table. “Protocol,” sighed Lockhart, looking away from him, hiding behind his ridiculous glasses. How on earth could this useless, fishy wimp have ended up Director of the Agency? David Estes had been many things, but no one would have called him a coward.

Anyway, he didn’t have much time to dwell on the subject once the questioning began. Nameless, faceless bureaucrats who had been swarming the place since Lockhart took over went in circles, repeated themselves, pressed, threatened, bargained… He played them, ignored them, yelled at them and even faked collaboration, desperately trying to figure out if they knew about Carrie’s visit. If she was chained to a table in a room next door.

During the first couple of hours, he totally owned the room, but as good as he was, interrogation techniques are made of stuff that works on you even if you know all the ins and outs, no matter how many times you’ve been at the other side of the table or behind the two-way mirror. He was already starting to lose it when the questioning halted and gave way to a nauseating mixture of unidentifiable noises and random music samples. So that’s how it felt. Unfortunately, his curiosity about the experience did not get him through more than one third of the night or so. It felt like shit. Brody had been a tough fucker – he had to give him that.

Dar Adal didn’t make an appearance in the interrogation room until the next day, when the sleepless night and the blinding beam of the lamp had turned Quinn’s mind into a piece of cotton, full of muffled voices and thoughts, each of them triggering a new surge of headache. As soon as he saw the old man, he somehow knew he was off the hook, but expecting a nice apology or at least an explanation was too optimistic. Not that he was capable of expecting anything, being exhausted to the point of raving.

\- Cut the crap, Peter. We know about you and Mathison.

\- Do you? What is it that you know about me and Mathison? Care to tell me? ‘Cause I don’t know shit about that… Not a single fucking thing.

In a way, it was the truth. However, his mentor seemed to have lost interest in the events of that night – something must have come up. Which meant Adal had a different agenda. Dragging Quinn back into the Agency. Had he not quit, he would have been a perfect candidate to head the new group – in fact, he was almost officially Rob’s successor, next in line. Not that he cared; one would assume he was after revenge, but he wasn’t. The abyss of violence and hatred which had swallowed his comrades could not give him revenge or justice, only more violence – and he was done with it. But Adal continued nagging him:

\- Look at you now. Human waste. I had bigger hopes for you.

\- Happy to disappoint you.

\- I’m nearing eighty – you think I stick with this post for no good reason? There’s nothing for us out there and you know it perfectly well. What are you going to do, drink beer with PTSD vets and cry on Mathison’s shoulder? You’ve seen how understanding she can be.

Before his mind could process his indignation at the dirty remark, he had a cursory mental image of grabbing a plastic cup from the table and tossing it right in Dar’s face, splashing water all over him. Oh, wait, it wasn’t a mental image, he had actually done it – Dar was wiping his brow, his expression somewhere between exasperated and amused. Expectedly, two officers rushed into the room, but Dar stopped them with a wave of his hand, muttering something like, “good thing I didn’t bring you coffee.” The men froze on the spot. Having enjoyed a small, theatrical pause, he went on in a dismissive tone:

\- Take these off him. You’re free to go, Peter. Have a good life. The funeral’s tomorrow – have the decency to show up.

He walked out of the room, then out of the building, not looking back once, not seeing any familiar faces, wondering what else it would take for him to finally end this chapter of his life. Wondering if there would ever be another. His phone had survived the night with a better outcome: two battery bars left. No texts or calls, though. He started typing, frantically, “Where are you?” – “Same place.” – “We need to talk.” – “OK.”

When his bus was pulling up at the hospital bus stop – the longest bus ride in history – he caught a glimpse of a huge black SUV starting off from the main entrance. Storming into the lobby, he called an elevator, didn’t wait for one to come, ran upstairs, past the nurse – “Sir, where are you going?! Sir, would you please…” – burst into her room without knocking… She was there. With the baby. Wound up and rattled, but safe. Looking at him with that earnest, warm concern he still couldn’t shake off from the day before. She grinned nervously, suddenly aware of their mutual awkwardness:

\- That was quick.

\- What did you tell them?

\- The truth, more or less. That I asked you not to go.

\- Because?

She shrugged.

\- Personal reasons.

\- Such as?

\- God, Quinn, yes, I told them I had feelings for you! And judging by the fact that you’re here, they bought it. I hope it didn’t hurt your pride, but frankly, you don’t look like you had fun there. So are we good?

_ “Define good.”  _ Had she just… Did she really… He pressed the point, clumsily, rudely, whatever… Cross the i’s, dot the t’s – he was not thinking straight. He just needed to know.  __

\- So you lied to cover my ass.

Carrie stared at him for a while with a glassy look, but didn’t answer. Was she going to protest? Was she offended? He waited. She took the baby, carefully, tenderly, went to the changing table, changed the baby’s diapers, talking to her under her breath and humming some song. He couldn’t see her face. Was she ignoring him on purpose? Was she looking for words? He waited and waited. Finally, she put the baby in the crib and turned to him. And it all went to shit.

\- No, Quinn, I lied to cover  _ my _ ass. See, I don’t feel like being dragged to Langley with a baby on my hands. I’d have confessed my love for Lockhart if it could help. Now, would you give me some privacy? I’m trying to be a mother here.

\- Sure. Sorry you had to do it.

\- I’ll live. Bye, Quinn.

He went home and slept for fourteen hours, and when he woke up, his heart was still broken. Only it seemed he had no heart at all – just a numb black hole inside. But he wasn’t a lovesick teenager, so life went on, as it always does. He had a funeral to attend. A job to find. Decisions to make. The black hole caused a certain discomfort, but people live with worse, you know. At least he didn’t have to kill anyone for a living now. Fucking fantastic.

And then he started having it too – the bad feeling. It was nothing like they show in cheap thrillers: some dumbass staring into thin air, brow furrowed, mouth agape. Instead, he felt as if he was tripping down an imaginary staircase, like when you’re falling asleep and wake with a start instead of going deeper. Only it happened in broad daylight. It was awkward; in the street, he caught concerned glances when he stumbled or dropped something because of these micro-fits. There was a time when he actually fell, down a real escalator in a shopping mall. It was then that the visions came, the visions of Carrie being dragged away, locked up, tortured and killed in a million horrid, hair-raising ways… He was used to nightmares, but this was a whole new level of madness. Or awareness.

After one of the most graphic sessions, he even started drafting a plan of extra security measures for her and seriously considered dialing her number. But regardless of how their relationship ended, or rather, failed to begin, imposing his ungrounded paranoia upon the mother of a newborn was not the best idea.

So he started doing what he was best at – observing, carefully watching her from the safe fucking distance, successfully staying out of sight. For days, there was nothing: Carrie stayed at home, taking the baby on long walks in the nearby park, sometimes accompanied by her dad. Her sister and two teenage girls – her nieces, presumably – paid a couple of visits. A neat dark-haired girl was around most of the time, coming to Carrie’s place early in the morning and staying until late in the afternoon. He figured she was the nanny. Sometimes Carrie went out alone; she would go to the bookstore a few blocks down and drop by a coffee shop, the one by the park, with jazz, strung lights and all sorts of organic bullshit, to get a big cup of coffee to go. She’d sit on a park bench, reading a book or leafing through a magazine, sipping on her coffee, sometimes just staying in the sun with her eyes closed and a light, barely discernible smile on her lips.  She looked serene and worry-free, but his visions wouldn’t go away. He wondered if she was taking extra medication because of the baby. If she was actually tired and stressed. And yes, if she thought about goddamn Brody.

He usually dropped his surveillance for the night, and it was a precaution anyway, as he was telling himself. But one evening, as he was turning the key in his car, he had this tripping sensation again. “ _ Copy that _ ,” he smirked, speaking to whatever was sending him all the signals, and turned the engine off.

In the rear-view mirror he saw a nondescript hatchback pull over some twenty meters behind him, on the other side of the road, opposite Carrie’s house. Quinn recognized the driver – and immediately went on full alert. It was one of the bearded morons who had let Brody drown, the one with a fancy name, Youssef or something. Youssef Turani. Only his showing up here indicated that probably he wasn’t so much of a moron. The guy stopped the engine and sat there for a while. Why are they running a surveillance operation on her?

Youssef started fumbling with some equipment. At first, Quinn could make out what it was, but then he saw it – a dull shine he’d have recognized in pitch-black darkness. An unmistakable gesture. Putting a silencer on a gun.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kindly betaread by ACAT and Leblanc1!
> 
> Quick reminder: join us this weekend at HLS Book Club! Details here:  
> http://homelandstuff.livejournal.com/11403.html


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